Secrets and Scones

by Laurel Remington

“You cooked it,” she says. “Only you can say for sure.”

  “Oh,” I say, not really understanding.

  I sit at the table. My friends and I silently lift our knives and forks, as if taking the first bite is some kind of test. I cut a piece off the little tower of eggs and muffin and stick it in my mouth. The tastes are wholesome and familiar, yet new at the same time. It strikes me that I’ve never really paid attention before to what I eat—the different flavors and textures. Maybe part of learning how to cook is learning how to eat. I look up and notice that Mrs. Simpson is watching me chew the first bite. Her lips pursed in a thin line, she nods almost imperceptibly at me. I smile at my plate. I know it’s good.

  In no time at all, everyone’s plate is completely empty. My only regret is that we didn’t make more. “Should we start the washing up?” I ask Mrs. Simpson.

  “First, let’s talk about what we cooked tonight and what we learned.”

  She goes around the table, asking each of us in turn what we thought of the dish we made. Alison says that it tasted good, and Violet says that it was fun to make. But Mrs. Simpson keeps questioning us, making us talk about things like the balance of the seasoning, the texture of the eggs, the crispiness of the muffins. Gretchen thought the sauce was a little runny; Violet thought her muffin was too brown on the bottom. When it gets to be my turn, I don’t quite know what to say.

  “I thought that everything we used went really well together,” I muster finally. “Like it belonged that way all along.”

  For the first time all evening, Mrs. Simpson manages a little smile. The years melt off her face. I smile back, glad to have given a right answer. “In that case,” she says, “I think we’re done here. Now, get started. I want this kitchen sparkling before you leave.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Simpson,” we all say in unison.

  We jump up from the table and start a marathon of washing dishes, cleaning countertops, putting away ingredients, and wiping down the stove. I keep stealing glances at Mrs. Simpson as she drinks another cup of tea, wondering about her. Tonight she’s made me think about cooking in a whole new way. And I feel good inside about what I’ve accomplished. That’s the best part.

  But by the time I finish drying the dishes, Mrs. Simpson’s eyes are closed and her head is drooping. Her grip loosens on her stick, and it falls to the floor with a thud.

  “We have to get her to bed,” I say. We take off our aprons and help Mrs. Simpson to the sofa in the front room. We cover her with an orange knitted throw. Less than a minute later, she’s asleep. All of a sudden I realize how irresponsible we’ve been—it must have been a shock for her to come home from the hospital, only to find a cooking club in her kitchen. We should have gone home hours ago.

  “Can we just leave her?” I say to Gretchen. Together we loosen the old woman’s shoes.

  “I’m not sure we have much choice. I guess she’ll be okay if she’s asleep.”

  “Uh-oh!” Alison looks at the screen of her phone for the first time all evening. “I told my mom that I’d be home by 8:30 from your house, Gretch. And now it’s almost 9:30. And I was supposed to finish that stupid essay.”

  Gretchen shrugs. “We’re all in the same boat.”

  “Where’s her stick?” I say. “She’ll need it when she wakes up.”

  “Still in the kitchen, I guess,” Violet says.

  “I’ll go and get it.”

  I head back to the kitchen. The little recipe notebook is closed on the rack, like it’s resting for the night. The plates and dishes that we used have been washed and are drying on the dish rack. The pots and pans are drying at the back of the stove. There’s a faint hissing sound as though a faucet is running somewhere. I check the kitchen faucet—it’s off. One of the wet dish towels is crumpled up on the counter. I hang it up over the front of the stove to dry faster. I pick up Mrs. Simpson’s stick and take it into the front room, propping it against the sofa so she can’t miss it.

  “Let’s go,” I say. “I’ll come back tomorrow morning and check that she’s okay.”

  We all grab our backpacks and head out the door. We’re in such a hurry that no one even thinks to give the secret password.

  Maybe that’s what we did wrong.

  Chapter 25

  Ketchup Sky

  There’s a light on under the door to the Mom Cave when I get back home. I tiptoe out of the kitchen toward the stairs when all of a sudden Mom bursts out.

  “Scarlett! Where have you been? I’ve been so worried.” She engulfs me in her special stale-smelling Mom hug. “I was about to call the police. I can’t believe you did this to me again.”

  I’m so tired that I just stand there letting her squeeze me.

  “Sorry, Mom,” I say. “But I did tell you about the science project. We’re working in pairs to build”—I scratch my head, trying to remember what we’ve done in science class this year—“a solar-powered car.”

  “Really?” Mom looks disappointed—she won’t get much mileage out of that in her blog.

  “I’m paired up with the new girl. Her name is Violet.”

  Mom steps back. I have to catch myself from slumping. “All right, maybe you did mention it before—I don’t remember.” She shrugs dismissively. “But I think it’s time we got you a phone. Just so you can let me know where you are.”

  “A phone? Really? That would be great.” Mom’s always been against girls my age having phones or tablets—anything like that. While I’ve got her old laptop computer and printer to do my homework, she won’t even let me have internet access. She’s already done a post on: “We Didn’t Have Any of That Stuff in My Day…So You Don’t Need It Either.”

  “I really was worried, Scarlett. I hope you know that.”

  I nod, wishing I could say more—tell her I’m grateful she was worried about me. But the words won’t come out.

  “It’s just…there’s something strange with this house sometimes.” She stares at the wall, oddly distracted. “It’s like, I keep smelling things. And remembering…”

  “Really?” I say. “Like what?”

  “Never mind.” She shakes her head. “I’ve got to get back to work now.” She goes to her office door. “And because you gave me a scare, you’re grounded.”

  Grounded! I try to protest, but she slams the door of the Mom Cave in my face. This is the first time she’s ever grounded me, and I can just imagine her sitting gleefully at her computer and typing up a new blog entry: “A Mom’s Pop Quiz: How Many Years Has My Daughter Taken Off My Life?”

  But as long as she doesn’t know about the Secret Cooking Club, I can live with whatever garbage she writes. Since we started the club, I’m stronger somehow, more confident. More like my old self.

  I go upstairs and brush my teeth. I can’t remember ever being so happy to flop onto my own bed. I pull the duvet up to my neck and close my eyes. But sleep doesn’t come. I go back over the events of the night: from Rosemary Simpson’s surprise arrival, to the egg dish that we made, to how full my stomach feels after eating something fresh and healthy. But something’s nagging at the back of my mind and it won’t go away. A hissing sound—as though a faucet is running somewhere…

  • • •

  “Wake up, Scarlett!”

  A hand is shaking me in the dark, and I open my eyes. There’s a strange reddish-orange glow outside the curtains, and something smells funny.

  “The sky is ketchup,” Kelsie says. She pulls the duvet off me. “Come and see.”

  I swing out of bed with a sleepy groan. The blood rushes from my head. Something is very wrong.

  “Girls!” Mom’s voice is frantic as she runs up the stairs. “We need to get outside right now. Something’s on fire.”

  On fire!

  All of a sudden I hear the scream of a siren rushing down the street. The ketchup sky begins to flash with the glow of the spi
nning light on the fire engine.

  “Mrs. Simpson!” I cry. “She’s in there.”

  “Who?” Mom barks.

  “Our neighbor! She’s just come home from the hospital.”

  We rush outside the front door. A small crowd of neighbors has gathered across the street.

  Firefighters pour out of the shiny, red truck—there’s at least six of them—and go up to Mrs. Simpson’s front door. One of them tries the door and another one gets ready to bash it in.

  “There’s a key under the doormat,” I yell, rushing forward. “You don’t need to break down the door.”

  One of the firefighters gets the key and unlocks the door.

  “Please step back,” another one says to me. “Across the street at the very least.”

  “Scarlett?” Mom’s voice warns. “Come here now.” She pulls me along by the arm, her other hand herding Kelsie. When we’re across the street I turn back, petrified, as the fireman pushes open the door. But there’s no billowing cloud of smoke: just an old woman’s frightened cry: “Who are you, young man? Go away now. Shoo…”

  Two more firefighters hurry in, one carrying a full-length stretcher. Mrs. Simpson’s protests grow even louder. “This is my house—and I’m not leaving!”

  The remaining firefighters go inside, dragging along a limp fire hose. I hear a loud crash of glass. “Please, lady!” A man’s voice. “We’re trying to help you. There’s a fire in your kitchen.”

  Mom is busy trying to get Kelsie to take her thumb out of her mouth. Sensing my chance, I run back across the street. One of the neighbors calls out, and then Mom yells, “Stop, Scarlett,” but I keep going. Mrs. Simpson knows me—I can help get her out of the burning house.

  But just as my foot hits the curb, a sleek, black Mercedes pulls up. I stop. A man jumps out of the car: tall with a high forehead, thin nose, and slicked-back dark hair. He’s wearing an expensive, black suit and shiny, black shoes. He turns to the crowd and waves briefly. Then he strides past me and up to the door.

  “Aunt Rosemary?” he calls out loudly. Water begins to whoosh through the hose.

  “No!” Mrs. Simpson’s voice. “Turn off that water right now!”

  Mr. Black Mercedes must be the nephew, Mr. Kruffs. Somehow, I’d pictured him as different—shorter, rounder, more like a fluffy poodle at a dog show. But this man looks more like a slick, modern version of a politician. Not someone I’d like to mess with.

  A moment later, the two firefighters come outside with Mrs. Simpson between them—kicking and dragging her feet like a criminal resisting arrest. Mr. Kruffs makes a big show of trying to take his aunt’s arm. He waves to the crowd that everything’s okay—obviously playing up the politician-rescues-old-lady-from-burning-building angle. Several people take pictures with their phones.

  Mrs. Simpson jerks her arm away. “You can go now, Emory,” she says. “Everything is fine.”

  “Fine?” His voice is low. “Your house is burning down—with you in it.”

  “Well…” Mrs. Simpson yanks her stick away from one of the firefighters. “These men have everything taken care of. And it was only a very small fire.” She turns to the crowd across the street and waves her cane. “Go away—shoo!”

  I step forward. “Mrs. Simpson?” I try to sound calm and soothing. “Are you okay? Can I help?”

  Mr. Kruffs gives me an intense glare down his long nose, as though I’ve just thrown an egg at his car. “Who are you?”

  I stand my ground. “I’m her neighbor.”

  “Well, go back across the street, please. It’s not safe for kids here.”

  Mrs. Simpson stares at me with pleading blue eyes. “Scarlett?” she says, sounding confused.

  “That’s right, Mrs. Simpson.” Ignoring Mr. Kruffs, I reach forward and take her arm gently. “Do you want to go and wait across the street until this is over?”

  The old woman looks at her nephew, hesitating. Before she can make up her mind, one of the firefighters comes out.

  “Everything is under control,” he says, loud enough for the crowd to hear. “You can all go back to bed.”

  Someone chuckles like he’s said something funny. No one leaves. I glance over at Mom, who’s talking to a woman from down the street. I catch a snippet about Superdrug and the Mom Survival Kit.

  Mr. Kruffs steps up and stands next to the firefighter. “Everything is going to be fine now.” He grins widely as a few more photos are snapped. “I think we should all get out of the way now and let our brave firefighters finish doing their jobs.”

  The crowd murmurs, and a few people begin to leave.

  I lean closer to Mrs. Simpson and listen as the firefighter speaks to Mr. Kruffs. “It was just a small, contained fire,” he says. “The stove in the kitchen was left on and a dish towel caught fire.”

  “A dish towel…” My hand flies to my mouth. What have I done?

  The firefighter continues talking to Mr. Kruffs. “There’s some smoke damage, a burnt window frame, and a broken window. It could have been a lot worse.”

  But things are worse. I know that as soon as I look at Mr. Kruffs, his face grimacing in concern. “The stove was left on,” he repeats. He shakes his head and tsks dramatically. “Really, Aunt Rosemary.”

  “It wasn’t her fault!” I say. Guilt and fear churn inside me.

  “Please stay out of this,” Mr. Kruffs says sharply. He turns back to his aunt. “This proves that you can’t keep living here on your own.”

  Her face crumples. “Yes, I can,” she says. “And I wouldn’t be on my own if you hadn’t taken Treacle.”

  Mr. Kruffs gives a pained-looking shrug. “Shouldn’t you be thanking me for that? That greedy old cat could have starved to death while you were in the hospital.”

  “He’s not greedy,” I cut in. “And he wouldn’t have starved. I was feeding him. You should bring him back.”

  Mr. Kruffs stares down at me like a vulture in a tall tree. “This has nothing to do with you,” he says.

  Mrs. Simpson’s bony hand tightens on my arm. “It’s everything to do with me,” I say with a sudden surge of protectiveness. “Mrs. Simpson is my neighbor—we share a wall. If her house had burnt down, so would ours.” I turn to her. “Come on, Mrs. Simpson, let’s go. I’ll ask Mom if you can sleep at our house tonight.”

  “There, Emory, you see?” Rosemary Simpson gives her nephew a defiant look. She allows me to steer her away. She hobbles toward our house, leaning heavily on both me and her stick.

  “I’ll be back in the morning,” Mr. Kruffs says. In two strides he’s back at the black Mercedes and getting into the driver’s seat. “We’ll talk about this further. And this time, I’m going to take some action.”

  Mrs. Simpson’s whole body starts to tremble.

  “It’s okay,” I whisper. “It’s going to be fine.”

  “Don’t let him put me in a home, please.”

  “I won’t, Mrs. Simpson.” I bite my lip. “I promise.”

  Chapter 26

  Maple Syrup

  But how on earth can I promise something like that? I’m the one who failed to notice the burner was still on. I’m the one who draped the dish towel too close. The fire was my fault, and Mrs. Simpson is paying the price! I stand next to her, feeling as though my chest might explode. Suddenly, Mom storms across the street, dragging my sister along with her. She takes my arm and pulls me aside.

  “Scarlett,” she scolds, “that man is a politician. You sounded very rude when you spoke to him. What’s going on?”

  “Mom…” I choke. Tell her. No, don’t tell her. What should I do? I take a long breath to pull myself together. “Please can Mrs. Simpson stay at our house tonight? It sounds like the firefighters have made kind of a mess in there. She needs somewhere to go.”

  Mom looks at Mrs. Simpson’s bent figure, then back at me. Her che
eks are red from the cold air and the effort of boring the pants off our neighbor with stories of the Superdrug product selection committee.

  “Honestly, Scarlett!” she says in a harsh whisper. “We can’t take someone in just like that. Where would she sleep?”

  “In my bed, or on the sofa bed—I don’t care.”

  “But we don’t even know her—”

  “We can’t just leave her out here!” I cry. “She’s our neighbor, and her house was on fire. We need to help her.”

  “But I’ve got a deadline, I’m so busy…” Mom shakes her head. “You know that, Scarlett.”

  I take a breath. “I do know that, Mom. You have to write your blog. What’s it going to be this time? ‘Help! My Teenage Daughter Is Taking in the Homeless Off the Street’? Or maybe, ‘Psst! My Thoughtless Daughter Made Me Miss My Deadline.’ But if you write that, I’m going to get online and be the first person to leave a comment.” I stand straighter. “I’m going to tell everyone—all your precious readers, Twitter followers, and Facebook friends—that the old woman who lives next door had no place to go and you wouldn’t even let her sleep on the sofa for one night.” I raise my chin. “How do you think that will make you look at your next meeting with Superdrug?”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Mom spits. “If you ever do anything to hurt my reputation online, then I’ll…I’ll…”

  “It’s just for one night, Mom. Let Mrs. Simpson stay with us for one night.”

  Mom’s eyes skewer me but I can’t back down—not now. “We’re not done with this conversation.” She walks over to Mrs. Simpson—the old woman seems to have dozed off leaning on her stick—and puts her hand on her arm. “Mrs. Simpson?” Mom sounds as though she’s talking to a child. “I’m Claire—Scarlett’s mom. If you need a place to stay for tonight, you can come next door to our house.”

  • • •

  Somehow I manage to fall asleep because when I wake up the next morning, my body feels like lead. The memories of the night come rushing back—the fire I caused, standing up to Mr. Kruffs and Mom, and most of all, the helpless look of trust on Mrs. Simpson’s face through it all. I get out of bed and rush to the window. The fire engines are gone without any sign they were ever really here. Everything is still and quiet. I get dressed and go downstairs to check on our guest.